A young woman with brunette hair that curled at its tips and plastic cat-eye glasses sat sideways with her legs draped over one arm of a comfy, orange chair in the corner of the local library. She was reading a Hemingway novel intensely. Occasionally the woman would pick up a strand of hair and absentmindedly twirl it around her fingers. She pulled the hair over lips that she puckered, giving herself a mustache, all without looking up from her book.

The young woman would usually stay there for hours. Sometimes she had a stack of books at the ready piled next to the orange chair, from which, should she not like or tire one novel, she would grab a new book. Sometimes the woman had just one novel and would sit in the chair and read and read until her eyes began to slide over the same line again and again.

And she had curious taste. She enjoyed Jane Austen, and Cosmopolitan magazine. She read cook books, and Stephen King; she read about the history of the piano tie.

The young woman’s name was Charlotte.